


Bottle o' Wine

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Dialogue-Only, Fluff, M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Tyler, DCI Hunt, and a bottle of shared wine.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“But that's bloody</i> dishwater<i>!"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottle o' Wine

**Author's Note:**

> A short little fic written for the advent calendar over at [lifein1973](lifein1973.livejournal.com). Early beginnings, trying to get the hang of Gene's and Sam's voices. And also my very first slash-fic! Please go easy on me. <3

Coughing and choking.

 

“Bloody 'ell, that the best you could come up with?”

 

“Don't you dare complain, Tyler. Not my fault Nelson's sick and got nobody to replace 'im.”

 

“But that's bloody _dishwater_!”

 

“I said, don't. Complain.”

 

A short silence. Glass scraping across a wooden table.

 

“It ain't really that bad, is it?”

 

Chuckling. “This, Gene, is the very definition of bad wine.”

 

“Well, you girly picky-pain gourmet, whose idea was it to go 'round my place an' share a bottle?”

 

“How was I supposed to know all you 'ad left was _this_? Never dreamed you'd be so terrible with wine, you're so picky with your whiskey –“

 

“Oi, don't go comparin' glorious single malt to that nancy grape juice.”

 

“And yet you have about twenty of those bottles stored.”

 

“Din't choose 'em.”

 

“Oh, so now it's your wife's fault? God, you must be really tired to blame this abomination on 'er.”

 

“The Gene Genie is never tired.”

 

A gulp, then a stifled cough. A short laugh.

 

“Still convinced it 'ain't that bad'?”

 

“I'll remind you again that this was your bloody idea to begin with, Tyler.”

 

“And you agreed, _Hunt_.”

 

A snort. “What else is there to bloody do tonight?”

 

Silence.

 

“The missus –?”

 

“Visiting 'er mother.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Longer silence. A gulp. “Yeah, it really is that bad.”

 

“Oh shut it, Tyler.”

 

“Run out of names to call me?”

 

“You wish, Gladys. You bloody wish.”

 

“That's an old one.”

 

“An old what?”

 

“An old name.”

 

“Tyler...”

 

Chuckling. “Cheers, Guv.”

 

Glasses clinking together. A moment of silence.

 

“That wine _is_ godamned awful though.”

 

“Christ on a bike, will you stop it, you ponce! An' you can wipe that stupid grin right off your face, or I'll do it for ye.”

 

“Charming as ever, aren't ye.”

 

“Always, Sammy-boy, always.”

 

Gulp. Glass firmly colliding with wood.

 

“Oh, god. Hey what-- don't, don't you _dare_ refill that glass, Hunt!”

 

“It was your idea, so you'll bloody well drink it all.”

 

“Will you stop blamin' me for the flamin' wine! It's your wine, an' you could always 'ave served up whiskey instead.”

 

“Gettin' all poetic, are we, Dorothy? Now don't get your knickers in a twist, that was the plan for afterwards.”

 

“Afterwards?”

 

Wood scraping over wood.

 

“Gene?”

 

A couple of heavy steps.

Lips meet lips. Silence.

 

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

 

“... you set all of this up... You, you knew I'd suggest comin' 'ere, and that –”

 

“Blimey Tyler, you actually _are_ a detective, aren't ya. Thought after _that_ draught, you'd be up for anythin'.”

 

Chuckling, another kiss.

 

“Christ, you're a big fool. An' now you'll have to deal with the taste of bad wine in my mouth.”

 

“There's always whiskey.”

 

“Thought that was for afterwards.”

 

“Didn't say after what, did I?”

 

“Hah. Show me, then.”

 

“I'm still your DCI you git, 'm not gonna obey any orders from my deputy dog.”

 

“Oh. Well, that's a sh –“

 

A silencing kiss. Shuffling, the rustling of clothes.

 

“Christ.”

 

“Shut your gob. I'll do the thinkin' tonight, you jus' follow my commands an' shut down that little nut o' yours.”

 

“Hm. Right. Oh, Gene?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks.” More shuffling, silence broken by low, content moaning. “And Merry Christmas.”

 

An approving grunt.


End file.
